When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace.

--Sri Chinmoy Ghose

M

for all your journey a blessing...
the path never knows the way but points the direction...

always listening if you want to talk...

good luck!

Thrown

Maybe all life has the same soul
everything's a part of,
all faces of same one self,
everyone looking for salvation alone,
each one like a coal
thrown from the fire.


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from Harlequin's comment:


sparks, smoke, sighs, murmurs, mist
a sweet bayou of life
a feast...

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so are words
so are words

Murambi

they say that he was free...

the one who has no no fence around his house is one who has no enemy...

and he had no fence around his mind...

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these lines are paraphrased from a book I'm reading:

Murambi, The Book of Bones. Boubacar Boris Diop.

Manifestations

Before I came to be I was nowhere. I'm nowhere now. I've been more and less present to dwelling on words, not the meaning but the way I say them, their relationship to silence and absence, the expanse about the syllables in the air. I think I should move on.

I awoke curled into the side of a mountain, a stone among the snow. Less I was the mountain or a tree, a stroke of lightening on the Liffey, unheard of as a story for gulls. Their battles are so fierce because the stakes are so small. Where was I then? Was that Swords or the Battery? That was wassisname's pub, wasn't it? More I think of it, it was Old Christmas Day, begging grog with boots on my hands and a cloth over my face to hide the scars. They all let me in. They know that I'm half-ways in, something left unfinished. Where are they going? I don't know. This isn't where I thought I was.

I remember a time before I left, but not well. I shudder to think back though it seems like only yesterday, or earlier tomorrow? Less I was a child and still an old man. Every word I spoke canceled out the rest and in the end I'd said nothing, just built mounds where I stood waiting for the end. Those apparitions showed themselves to me, though perhaps they never did. I tasted them with trembling, shivering down my spine, walking over unmarked graves, over crawling skin. Was that me underground, sinking lower than a sunset over all the unsympathetic miles? When I wake up I’m still gone and I never wake up, keep moving in a dream as notes falling from a piano to snow hanging in the air to days stolen from behind. Will I remember when the sun goes down? Will I be jealous of the night? Will there be lions? If there are there will be.

If love is wrong I would rather bid farewell.

Short Play

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This is another writing experiment. It was inspired by a post the Crow put up a week ago entitled Show, and by the writing of Beckett, who I've been reading lately. I'd also like to thank Derliwall for editorial support. I'm interested to know what you all may think about this piece. Thanks. The Hopper.
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Front curtain rises.

The stage is set such that members of the audience seem to be watching the scene from behind.

Stage left a coat tree, wooden. Front center, a stool. Middle right, a rocking chair, facing away from audience. Taped to the back of the rocker, three white cue cards, each with a different actor's script. Blood drips from the rocker, forming a puddle on the floor.

Three actors, back to audience, arms raised overhead as though about to take a bow. Their costumes indicate that they were in a cowboy play, neckerchiefs, boots and spurs. Actor one (left), a young girl, wearing a summer dress, holding a six-shooter aloft in her left hand. Actor two (mid), a man, wearing denim jeans and a white shirt, soaked in blood, as are his hands, arms and neck. Actor three (right), a man, wearing black pants, a black jacket, empty holsters on each hip, holding a six shooter aloft in his right hand. The actors take a bow.

Sound of loud applause, cheering and whistling. Curtain falls along the back wall. Sound of applause and cheering continues.

Actors embrace and pat one another on the backs, jubilant. Exit left. Fading sound of applause.

Sound of murmuring and indistinct conversation, commotion and shuffle of theater emptying. Sound fading for one minute. Quiet din.

Sound of distant door closing. All quiet.

Stage left, enter cleaner pushing a trolley equipped with mop, bucket, towels and other cleaning supplies. Garbage bag hangs off the side. A typical cleaning cart. Cleaner is an older man, gray hair, dressed in an suit, threadbare, a tweed salt and pepper hat on his head. Walks with a limp in his right leg, making his movement slow.

Pushes trolley slowly towards middle of the stage. Stops when reaches center, humming as he goes.

Limps to the back of the stage, lifts up curtain, peers out. Drops curtain, turns, limps back to trolley. Looks around stage as he goes.

Abruptly stops humming. Notices blood on floor and seat of rocking chair. Grumbles and curses under his breath, shaking his head. Sighs.

Dunks mop in bucket of water. Wrings mop laboriously. Moves slowly towards rocker. Begins to mop blood. The mopping spreads the blood into streaks. Much more red on floor. More grumbling.

Stops mopping. Goes back to trolley. Puts mop in bucket and looks around stage, fuming.

Takes towel from trolley, laboriously begins to scrub floor on hands and knees, sopping up the blood and water. Towel stains bright red.

Struggles to get up. Throws spent towel in garbage bag. Takes another towel from trolley.

Goes back to rocker. Kneels down to start scrubbing when he notices the three cue cards taped to the rocking chair. He looks at each one.

Pulls a card free from rocker. Stands up. Reads card more attentively. Looks stage left, disturbed.

Limps to coat tree, mumbling to himself as he continues to read card. Tips his hat towards the stool. Mimes taking off a coat and hanging it on the tree.

Cleaner (in a bad western accent): Howdy.

Pause.

Cleaner: You know why I'm here lil' missie?

Pause.

Cleaner: No. I ain't gonna kill your pa.

Pause.

Cleaner: You'se is gonna kill your pa.

Front curtain falls.

b,,,,
l,,,,,,,
a,,,,,,,,,
d,,,,
e,

o
,f

,,,g
,,,,,r
,,,,,,,a
,,,s
,s

b
,,,,e
,,,,,n
d
s,,

Adaptation

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I must be standing on a hill,
some way from the village.
I can see the vineyards and gardens,
thatched roofs. The stars adrift
in light cloud cover, almost golden
the rolling hills like
a tide about to wash in.
An explosion at the point of perspective,
searing the canvass,
what could have been a tree,
surely a spotlight in the sky,
a fleet of bombers and the hills
the head of a hammer.
Pardon my grammar.
It was a starry, starry night.

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the opening of Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett:

A country road. A tree.
Evening.

Estragon, sitting on a low mound, is trying to take off his boot. He pulls at it with both hands, panting. He gives up, exhausted, rests, tries again. As before....

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from Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra:

Here the young man fell silent. And Zarathustra contemplated the tree beside which they were standing, and spoke thus:

'This tree stands here alone on the mountainside; it has grown up high above man and animal.

'And if it wished to speak, it would find no one who understood it: so high has it grown.

'Now it waits and waits -- yet what is it waiting for? It lives too near the seat of the clouds: is it waiting, perhaps, for the first lightening?'

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................................................................................................................................................... is silence............................lack of speech..................time remaining...............as punctuation...........the envelope................words left out...........................what is memory............see the photographs............................shoebox...............kite................burial ground for breakfast.......................................traffic light..........what is the truth about.........when there are many possible truths about..........what are we..................spaces between................................................................................................................................................................................
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